A song unsung
by Spirit of dawn
Summary: Challenge: Eowyn joins the Rohirrim in the Battle of Pelennor Fields, but it's her, not Gandalf, who winds up finding Faramir as he's about to be burned alive by Denethor
1. Verse I

A/N: As usual, nothing is mine, all is Tolkiens, except for the plotbunny, which is from a challenge on should say that this is an absolute novum and also an exception, since usually I do not very much like to write AU. I usually stick to missing moments or to stories, that could be canon, if watched from a certain point of view. The topic intrigued me, though, and an idea sprang into my mind, so here is my one brave stab at the genre of AU.

Verse I:

_Through fire and fear_

_Through tears and toils_

_I have come to die_

_In the smoke of the dawning day_

She would have smelled the smoke perhaps, the smoke as the first foreboding of this very day's star, being a herold of the battles that yet had to come. But she was long beyound noticing anything but the horizon, that would mean her death.

And on the horizon, as the new dawn spilled its red in rich, bloody brightness over the nightly sky, the smoke, that had long since begun to caress their noses, showed in the sky as well.

Minas Tirith, Citadel of Gondor, Hope of Men, was burning.

The ride of the Rohirrim slowed before the final hill, the thundering of the horses receding to the softer sounds of slow hoovfalls on the grass.The familiar sound of the horses imitated routine, but being among those, amongst whom she had been raised, among familiar faces, from which she had to hide her eyes, she felt utterly lost and alone.

Endless was the ascent onto the final hill, as they followed the horse of their king into battle. Golden was the armor of Theoden king, and green was his cloak, and golden and green were the banners, that waved in a wind that nobody of them could feel.

The air was heavy, ladden with fear and doom, and she could hear the breathing of the men around her. The hobbit sitting in the saddle before her was coughing, his hand, that was clutching her own, sweating and cold.

„It will soon be over", she whispered as if to take courage from the words, that spoke of death, and a shudder, touched her and the hobbit as well. Every step seemed more difficult than the rest, and endless was the hill before her. Only the next step she willed her horse to go, always the next step, a whole eternity of seconds under the bloody morning sky.

And then she had reached the top, and the world came to an end.

A proud city crowned by a white tower lay nestled against the stony hill, and it was in flames. The lower levels of the city were burning and fires also had arisen high up in the higher streets of Minas Tirith. The battle was going ill. The field spread out at the city's feet was swarming with a black mass that was the army of mordor, and smoke joined the clouds to darken the red sky, as if the night was never to be conquered again. The cries of the Nazgul flying over the field was thickening the air.

The wind carried to them the chants of the orks, the wild animalic cries, leaving her trembling and hopeless in the sea of gold and green. There was a horn, lonely and torn, somewhere in the ranks of the riders, that called to the city, and another took up the cry, and another, and another yet.

And the world held its breath for the first time this morning.

The voice of Theoden joined the horns, and he called out to his riders. And then, like a cleansing flood, the Rohirrim came down on the orcs, with sword and spear, to avenge and to shield in this final alliance.

And Eowyn was among them, wearing the disguise of Dernhelm, the Rider, and Merry was sitting in her saddle with her. The time for fear was over. To death they rode, to ruin, and to the day that would decide the fate of Middle Earth. A ray of sunlight bravely breached the clouds, and silver was the light, that shone back of the blade of the shieldmaid.

And so the world began to breathe again...


	2. Verse II

Verse II

_Save a prayer for us_

_Those who fell with no hope_

_But never will I die in company of those_

_Who feared my company in death_

The heavy door fell into the lock, the loud, metallic clang resounding through the halls and passes. Thick stone walls had buried them alive, and the silence claimed, what was left of the battle. Their boots were heavy, but the atmosphere of the stony hall seemed to swallow every sound, every single step. And so they walked, the silence being a funeral march more fitting than any slow, mourning trumpet sound would have.

In front there walked the Stewart, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, a man stern in face and stature, his steps slow but steady, his gaze fixed on the other life they had slowly begun to penetrate his conciousness with their first steps into the Silent Street. Behind him, there were six men, guards of the citadel, clothed in black and silver, the tree of Gondor in their tunic gleamed in the dim light of the torches, seemingly the only real source of light in these halls. On their shoulders, they carried Faramir, son of Denethor, who fell in the defence of the city, and in whose pale, lifeless face, Denethor had seen his own end coming.

Because thus it was, that the line of the Stewarts would fail...

There should have been a funeral march, maybe, the slow,wailing horns, the quivering trumpets, but it was the silence, that the orb had promised, that swallowed, what was left of Gondors rulers.

Of all those, who still had tried to maintain the city, who had fought for the proud heritage of Numenor to survive, Denethor had been the first to know – with the certainty that only a carefully placed lie can bring - that all their struggles would be in vain, that darkness unescapable lingered in Mordor, and now, that the pest of the Black Lands had left ist realm, all hope was gone, and so would he be. Soon, so soon...

There was no strength left for regret, no strength for tears. Stern he had been, all his life, and stern he would go, but the proud fight that had kept him upright, was gone. Denethor had left the realms of men, the instance that his son, his second son, the vain, the useless, the weak one, had been brought to him, battered, dead, gone.

Too late, Denethor had realized his mistake. His greatest strength, his sons, weapons in his hands, had been wasted, and now, at last, he understood what the silken voice of darkness had prophecied – not only that Minas Tirith, Gondor, Men would fall, but that it would be his fault, his responsibility alone.

Too late had he seen, that his hopes, high as they had been on Boromir, would not have been placed badly on Faramir either, on his second son, second weapon in his ageing hands, and how poorly had he made use of it!

All this he understood, looking at the pale face of the Captain, as the blood slowly left the dying body together with the breath of life. Faramir, this now, at last, at the end of all things, when hope had failed, he understood, was the city, more than Denethor himself had been, and in his sacrifice he had signed the death sentence for Minas Tirith, too. For the city would fall with his son, and would have lived with him.

And thus it was, that his soul cried out in agony, turning its back to the fights and gladly welcoming madness.

It was the final triumph of the whispering orb over the spirit of a man, who had proven to be resistant beyound expectation, who had claimed – and got – much of the attention of the brooding spirit in the darkness. A man who had been strong enough to look into the fire and remain standing, if only for a while. But the strength of his heart had been Denethors weakness also, and strong as fealty, love and honor were, if wielded as a blade against the trickery of Mordor, deadly were they, if turned against itself, deadlier still if turned against the world.

And so, indeed, Denethor had built his very own tomb.

And the final step would not be patient for much longer.

„Burn we shall..." he whispered, as he lay eyes on the stone at the crossing of the silent streets, and in his eyes, there was a fire already, and his body cried to feel the agonizing heat from without as well as within.

Denethor turned, watching the six guards, as they tenderly set down Faramir, pale, dying Faramir, onto the stone, and he saw the fire burn him as well, as it should have to be.

Rusty was his voice, but none the less strong, commanding and cold.

„Bring wood and oil."


	3. Verse III

Verse III

_Oh for the courage and glory_

_Like gems, glittering in the sunlight_

_Now burning to ashes _

_In the dawn of my failure_

One

The pounding on the mighty gate resounded throughout the city. Small pebbles trickled down the walls of some of those houses, which unfortunately stood next to gate and wall. He steadied his horse, even if of all beasts still alive in this city, Shadowfax would be the one with the greatest heart. But still, death was knocking on the doors...

Two

Another pounding made the horse loose the grip of its hooves on the pavings. The men around him wavered, retreated, some of them even fell as the ground under their feet trembled under the force of Mordor. Gandalf did not know, what it was, that they would use to break the walls, but all that counted was, that, strong as Minas Tirith was, proud as her walls still loomed over the endless masses, that crowded the Pelennor, eventually, the city would fall. The enemy were too many. If Rohan would not come, all was lost.

„Steady!" he cried, as loud, as his frail human voice would allow him, encouraging the soldiers, fighting down his own fear, not for his person, not for his heart, but for this city and the world itself. He raced the lines of men, that, with pikes, swords and bows, stood in defense of the gate, shouting, taking the place the Steward of the city should have taken, the Steward, who had lost his very own battle with madness. With regret, Gandalf thought of those, who still were on the walls of the First Circle, of those, who inadvertedly would be cut off from the rest of the city, sacrificed, but there was no time to call them back.

Gandalf sensed the third pounding before it fell.

Three

The gate burst, revealing the snout of a horrible form, the gigantic head of a beast unknown, fire raging in its mouth, between the sharp teeth. Only Gandalf saw it as it was, a device, terrible and strong, but a device of iron and fire nontheless, no thing of flesh and blood, but of flesh and blood the orks were, that stormed the breech the monstrosity had forced.

But Gondor's soldiers had not been defeated yet, and a wall of pikes, showers of arrows, glinting swords in the light of thousands of torches, were weapons against the attackers still. High was the toll, that Mordor payed to set foot into the city, and each ork dying was rewarded with a grim nod. Where a man fell, others closed the breech. They fought a retreat, but fought nonetheless, Gandalf seemingly being everywhere at once, his voice, his presence inspiring their spirit.

But the resources of Mordor were seemingly endless, and so finally, Gandalf decided, that nothing was to be won here, in this part of the city. He shouted for a retreat, and so they raced for the second circle, civilians, that had not yet left the lower city, falling between the hooves of Shadowfax and under the feet of the orks of Mordor. The frantic run was on the brim of panic, but the thin line had not been crossed yet, and still Gandalf stood against it, rock and stone, hope and strength. It was not in him to despair, and so he would not, as much as his body called for it. For he was the White, the Hope, the Wall. And as fire consumed the first circle, his voice was the cry in the chaos, that everyone clung on to. A row of soldiers formed behind the door of the second circle, that had hastily been closed, sacrificing those, who had not made it to the barrier in time. The tips of the pikes were trembling, but like a wall they stood. A second line of men, archers, formed some way behind, aiming at the gate, while the walls were manned in haste.

At the dawn of destruction, there was no time for fear.

Gandalf closed his eyes for a second, as a foreign sound breeched the chaos outside the walls. A horn. And then another. And another. A horn of Rohan.

The Rohirrim had come. And not all was lost.


	4. Verse IV

Verse IV

Sing me a song, mommy 

_A song of glorious battle_

_No battle is glorious, my child_

_It is death and lost, and nothing more_

Like a flood of green and golden, the Riders sweeped into the mass of orks, that still surrounded the white city. The rhytmic chanting and howling, that had enrolled the city like an invisible cover, came to a halt. The sound of the cries of the dying, the screams of the horses, the horns and the howling, mixed, building up an exquisite carpet of battle, that consumed everyone on the Pelennor.

Eowyn and Merry, amidst the fighters, struggled, swords ablaze, one to the left, one guarding the right hand side of the horse that was still advancing in the charge of the Rohirrim. Eowyn was not sure, if battle was, what she had expected. She had longed for the glory and for the fight – for a death like a ray of fire, a final lightning before the darkness. She had wanted to feel what life was, and sought it in the proximity, in the certainty of death.

For is it not so, that one only learns to love, what one has already lost?

And so she fought blindly, did not see friends and foes fall around her. The fear was gone, now that the necessity to survive had taken her heart in its grip. They threw back the orks, now caught between the unyielding city and the wave of the Rohirrim, and grim wounds the glittering swords of the horsemen caused.

But the orks were not all that Mordor had to give.

A deep howling, new cries, foreign songs, approached slowly, at first swallowed by the sounds of the battle, but then becoming more prominent. A new rhythm replaced the battle chants of the orks, that had diminished under the attack of the Rohirrim, and before the Riders understood, the captain of the Orks already had grasped the situation.

„HARADRIM!" he cried, and the orks turned to recieve the coming reinforcements.

Some in flight, some in something, that vaguely resembled a marching order, the armies of Mordor hurried to the relative safety of the newly arrived. The orks withdrew from the fights, tried to escape the whirling hooves and biting swords of the Rohirrim, and Theoden king, sensing the danger, gave order to let the orks withdraw.

Eowyn did not hear his voice. Blood covered her sword, her green tunic, and her breath raced, as she engaged the foe before her. The orc stumbled back a few paces, encouraged by the resounding horns of the Haradrim, but Eowyn went in pursuit. She was not prepared to let go of her enemy. To many orcs there were, and this one would not live.

Her horse stumbled over the body of a dead foe, and the orc, sensing the opportunity, turned and fled, running up the hill with his kin. Eowyn pulled the reigns angrily and spurred her horse.

„Run, run", she whispered, her voice hoarse, and the brave beast obeyed, carrying her and Merry after their fleeing enemy. A strange fury had taken hold of her. Too much evil had come from the pest of Mordor, too much, to even let one of them escape.

Eowyn left behind the ranks of the reforming Rohirrim in fury. She did not hear the calling, that bid her return to her own lines. The captains cried, and even the voice of Theoden king called back the lone rider, that raced the field, but she paid them no heed.

She screamed, a sound without word, expression of her fury and despair, and it was this scream, that made Theodens eyes widen in terror.

„Merciful Valar", he whispered, his voice being swallowed by the sounds of the battlefield. „It is her..."

But it was too late, and the Lady of the horses had left her people in pursuit of her enemy.

Eowyn and Merry were half up the hill, when the Haradrim crossed the top and made themselves seen. A long row of Oliphaunts appeared like a wall unpassable. Each of the animals was large like a tower, and crowned with a saddle of wood and bone, each bearing warriors uncounted. There were no arrows yet, but there would be, and at last, Eowyn understood, that she had dared to go to far. She pulled the reigns and forced the horse to a halt, and stared, wide-eyed, at the approaching army, as her foe, that she had so furiously hunted, fled towards safety being greeted by a cheer.

„Oh no", whispered Merry, and the proud rider trembled. Her gaze darted to and fro between her own lines and the enemy's, but she knew, she could not make it.

„So be it." Her voice trembled, but she held the reigns in an iron grip. „Merry, be steady. The end is near."

And yet she feared the end, now that it was there.

A cry resounded over the battlefield, made man and horse tremble. Like agony becoming sound it wavered over the forces of Mordor, encouraging them, as the Rohirrim crumbled under the horror.

One of them found the strength to call out, and his call was taken up by many others, everyone giving form and sound to his terror.

„NAZGUL!"


	5. Verse V

Verse V

_Call for me_

_Scream for me_

_Cry for me_

_And the silence will not listen_

„He is not dead!"

Pippin stared in terror at the scenery before him, that could not have been more grotesque. A pyre had been built, bundles of wood surrounding the stone altar in the middle of the Halls of the Dead. Upon this pyre lay Faramir, son of Denethor, still breathing, surrounded by guards, that filled up the pyre with more material. Denethor, son of Ecthelion, stood upright, surveying the works as if he were supervising the construction of a monument. His stature was proud, his jaw set, his gaze unbroken, and yet Pippin saw the lingering madness behind it. He shuddered, but his fear for the Captain of Gondor was stronger.

„He is not dead!" he insisted, louder this time, and raced towards the scenery, trying to get past the guards, that, expressionless as usual, blocked his path. „He is breathing!"

The hobbit ducked under the hands of one of the guards and slipped past them, running towards the pyre. He stretched out his hands to the cape of the Captain and found it wet. A strange smell emerged from it, and he did not understand at first what it was, that he was smelling. But when he did, he gazed at Denethor in horror.

„No, my Lord!" he protested and violently shook his head. „You must not do this. He is not dead!"

But dead were the eyes of Denethor, as at last, he seemed to take notice of his newest guard. He stepped towards the Shireling and lifted him up without showing so much as an effort.

„Hereby, Peregrin, son of Paladin, I release you from my service." The guards stepped aside, as Denethor dragged the wriggling hobbit towards the portal. „Now go and die in whatever way seems appropriate to you."

The doors opened, and Pippin found himself lying on the steps of the Silent Street.

With a loud clang, the door closed behind him, trapping inside those, that did not want to see another morning – and those, that were not given a choice.

Pippin buried his head in his hands for a moment and tears of anger ran down his cheeks. His mind raced, jumping from possibility to possibility as Minas Tirith burned beneath him.

Only one possibility remained.

Gandalf.

Pippin turned and raced back down to the lower circles, where the fires and cries told, that the battle had reached the insides of the city. But he was not afraid for himself. High up in the Silent Street, a lost mind was burning what was left of his life.


	6. Verse VI

Verse VI

_In the twinkle of an eye_

_Paradises are lost_

_And another song emerges_

_Claiming music as its own_

She tore the reigns on her horse, and the neighing steed came to an unsteady halt. Wide-eyed and in terror, Eowyn gazed at the scenery before her. The hilltop that she had been climbing, was filled with the dark shades of the haradrim mumakilim, the war-animals that were called by the bloodstained field. The trumpets and horns mingled with the shrieks of the Nazgul to form a sinfony of terror, and she was in the middle of it.

Slowly, the army approached. Eowyn, paralyzed by fear and horror, stood unmoving between the advancing armies. She did not hear, that behind her, Theoden led the Rohirrim in an attack, at last understanding, who it was, that stood there, half up the hill, all on his, or better, her own.

The riders complied like one man, and the river of green and gold once more swarmed, but too late they would come. The single rider, had long since drawn attention.

What catches the gaze of something, that was no longer human? What frail moment can capture a wandering spirit? What defiance is there, in that special moment, right before the light in the eyes of a human being fades?

High up in the screaming winds, that tore on the wings of his beast, the witch king surveyed his army. He saw the orks, reforming behind the mumakilim, saw the Haradrim fearlessly leading an attack. Far down below him, the city of Minas Tirith was burning.

He must be somewhere.

But the one spirit he was looking for, did not show, the time for the final fight not yet come. He turned his gaze to look at the river of green, that was charging uphill, not fearing the strength of his army yet.

And further he turned, to see the lone rider in front of the Rohirrim, a slender figure with shield and sword, a smaller figure in the saddle with him. He turned down to watch the strange occurrence.

And saw.

Saw...

They say one fears what one has abandoned lightly. And maybe this was, what caught his eye. Defiance, fear, but a strength underlying, the bloom of youth and the gift of a courageous heart. He saw a face so young, that it might have belonged to a child, eyes, blue as steel and strong as stone, and yet they were eyes, that had not seen, eyes, that had not truly understood.

Here was one, he understood, that was not cattle, that was not sheep. Here was a kingly blood, and unstained yet. A rare gem.

And he did not destroy, what could be precious.

Come..., he whispered.

She heard the call, like a dead whisper on the wind, and lifted her head to the source of the sound. The sound of it was horror and inspiration, speaking to every bone of her body. She trembled under the might of the witch king's voice, that was beckoning her to shores unseen.

„No." She needed to hear the words spoken aloud, ignoring Merry's confused, fearful words. The world was falling apart around her, and Eowyn did the only thing she could think of. She lifted her sword, tightened her hold on her shield. „You come here", she hissed between clenched teeth, presenting her sword to the black rider in the sky. As the armies from both sides raced to reach the rohirric woman, shieldmaiden and nazgul faced each other in a moment, that threatened to claim eternity at last.

The wingbeast swept down on her with all the might of Mordors breed, and Eowyn screamed, as her sword touched decaying flesh, slicing one claw as the other one claimed her whole.

She felt torn, high up into the winds that swept arond her in a deafening blow. Merry, below her, was screaming, but it felt distant, far away, further even than it really was, as the witch king gained height with every powerful stroke of the beast.

And a whisper, that was her world now, filled her mind to the core.

„Mine..."

It was only when she was high up above city, the battle like an exclusive carpet below her, looking harmless and unreal, that she understood, what was going on.

Terror gripped her as she felt the closeness of the enemy, the sizzeling would her sword had slain, the stench of the wingbeast and the voice of the rider, ever in her ears, ever in her mind. She could see him, feel that he was there, claiming, touching her in a way more intimate than a caress would have done. She felt tainted and sick, her hand only barely gripping her sword. Faintly, she considered hacking off the claw that held her, falling into oblivion, but the voice whispered away that thought in the twinkle of an eye.

„Mine...", it whispered, softly with the fouling adoration of a spirit beyound humanity. „Know you..."

And this he did, and there was not even any room left to scream.

Eternity passed and pushed her beyound when a ray of white passed the mist of her mind and gave the unwanted gift of sudden clarity. She screamed as the spirit withdrew, turning ist attention to other refinements.

The enemy had shown himself...


	7. Verse VII

Verse VII

_We have waited _

_So long_

_For all the threads to be woven_

_For all the songs to be sung_

They knew.

Both of them.

With the certainty, that the knowledge of fate brings, they had known, that time would finally claim its own. Enmity long harbored spun into a catharsis at last, and both could not deny the hour had come.

Gandalf tore the reigns of Shadowfax. Pippin, sitting behind him, screaming in fear as the black beast approached, was gone, and so was the mortal peril of the sun of the Steward, that had sent him racing up the circles of the city under siege.

Gone was Mordor and gone was Gondor.

All that remained was him, and the beast.

He did not even see the little bundle that the wingbeast was carrying, discarding it like a toy as it toppled over on the cobblestones of the gondorian street, before it came to lie still, motionless, on the onmoving stone.

And so it began...

Pippin jumped off Shadowfax as Gandalf took to advance on the witch king. He had not failed to see the determination, with which the enemies had faced each other, a confrontation, that would crush him, if he dared to intrude. But he, unlike Gandalf, had noticed the bundle that had fallen to the earth, and with sudden terror, he was sure to have recognized the green and gold of Rohan.

A rider...

Ducking into the pathways on the side of the streets, he passed the opponents, that had taken on battle, the swords being only the outward signs of a fight, that was going deeper than physical conflict. Nimbly, he hurried towards what was definitely a human being, stirring softly and in pain.

It was only, when he was very close that he understood, who was standing before him.

„Eowyn of Rohan!"

The stern Lady of the Golden Hall, cool and sad, now lay here on the street, moving barely as he touched her shoulder.

„Wake up!"

He shook her, and suddenly, she opened her eyes, wide and in terror. Only a moment later, she focussed on him, breathing deeply.

„Is he gone...?" Her voice was small, timid, scared even unbefitting of the Rohan lady.

Pippin turned around to gaze behind himself, then shook his head.

„No. He is fighting Gandalf..."

„Oh", she whispered, still not herself, and the hobbit could see she was trembling. But there was no time for this, not now, not in this battle that would claim the life of what was left of the house of Madil, if he would not do anything.

„Eowyn, I need your help!"

That brought some life back to her eyes, the prospect of being able to do something. She tried to sit up, Pippin helping as well as he could.

„What?"

„Denethor. He.. .he's trying to burn Faramir!"

She tilted her head slightly, puzzled, as she tried to figure out what he was talking about. Faintly, through the haze, she remembered the names familiar even in Rohan and nodded.

„The stewart..." she stammered. „... his son..."

Pippin nodded, impatiently.

„Yes, yes, we have to go!"

She shook her head, trying to chase away the dizzyness and the stench, that still had not fully left her nostrils. She got up, clumsily, swaying on her feet as she finally stood. Pippin did not wait for her to recover, but took her arm and drew her forward, through the alien stone city, two foreigners racing to save the lords of the city.

Eowyn still felt utterly drained, moving more by instinct then by her own, free decision, but still, she was moving, one agonizing step after another. The stone houses of the stone city raced by, imprisoning her, but she did not care.

There was a prison of another's making that would not let her go.


	8. Verse VIII

Verse VIII

_I have seen the fires_

_I have seen the smoke_

_I have seen the flames_

_Burning myself away_

High blazed the pyre, the fires in the darkness of the Silent Street. The guards watched their masters burning, their faces ever impassive as they perfomed their last, most gruesome duty. Loyal to the last, and if the city should crumble with ruins, they would not desert Denethor, son of Ecthelion.

There was a loud clang on the door, a second, and a third finally, busting the wings open. The world came back in a blow, daylight, clear and bright, chased away the surreal moment. The sounds of battle, faint though they still were, came with the wind, a breeze of foul air that carried the stench of Mordor into the stone.

„Stop it!"

The cry, magnified by the alleyways, resounding and coming back, tore apart the revered silence, that had enfolded the scenery. The guards whirled around, their weapons at ready, but unmoving yet.as they watched the two figures standing in the bright daylight.

Denethor himself was oblivious to the intruder. He stood, arms spread wide, lost in his own glory of fire, as the flames crept towards him through the oily wood. He had left this world, breathing though he still might be, and nothng could call him back.

Eowyn staggered, a step, then another, towards the blurring flames she could see before her. Still her head swam, still her legs did not seem to hold her weight, but the stench of fire roused and soothed her. There was something cleansing about the flames.

She took another step, a sword in her had, that she had seemingly picked up somewhere she could not even remember.

„Let him go."

Her voice barely reached above the flames, but there was an intensity in her eyes, that did not exclude the guards.

„Let him go!" Pippin raced towards the pyre, but the guards held him back. The hobbit kicked around as he was caught by the collar, and his face contorted in fury and fear. „Denethor is raving mad! He is burning his son alive!"

As agile as Pippin was, Eowyn was just as calm. She took one slow, agonizing step after another, trailing the sword behind her. She knew, she would not stand a fight. There were six of them, and still she could barely see above the remnants of the taint and the voice. But still, there was breath left in her, and there still was that spark, that had led the proud daughter of Rohan to ride to battle.

The guards stepped in her way, their faces expressionless, and Eowyn faced four of them, while two were holding the struggling hobbit.

„Let him go", she repeated. She lifted her sword, more in a symbolic gesture, than posing a real thread. „Let him go. I am Eowyn of Rohan, sisterdaughter to the king. Rohan has come and this is Rohan's fight as well."

The tip of her sword was trembling, she could hardly keep it upright, but never left her eyes the gaze of the four before her. And they listened, captured by the pure determination in the voice of Eowyn.

„Gondor called for help to be saved from the fire. The beacons have been lit, and so we have come. And here I am to save Gondor from the fire."

There was a hesitation in the demeanour of the guards. There was something surreal in the young woman, the trembling fighter with the steady eyes, holding them with a fierce intensity they had not yet seen.

„Your masters are dying", she hissed.

„What courage is there in obedience to the last, if it only leads to ruin?"

Unspokenly, a fight was fought. Blows were taken and given, a battle raging back and forth. Eowyn was trembling miserably, the tip of her sword pointing to the floor again, its weight supported by the solid stone, where her strength could not hold it any more.

But what bodily power she could not demonstrate any more, her eyes still held. Pippin had stopped to struggle, watching the uneven fight, mouth open.

And then, one by one, the guards stepped back. Pippin was set free, as Eowyns gaze met the one of the man behind him. In the flickering light of the burning pyre, the silent watchers retreated into darkness.

A moment stretched to eternity, as Pippin stared at the shieldmaiden, who looked to the floor, utterly drained and consumed by voices once more. The cacophonic sounds of the witch king's voice swelled, now that the tension had gone, and she swayed, only half conciously fighting not to fall.

Suddenly, Pippin was painfully aware of the heat of the flames, that burned in his back. The stench of smoke was everywhere, and the world switched into focus again.

„Faramir!"

He whirled around and jumped onto the pyre, where the Stewart stood, oblivious to all but his dreams of final glory, and his son lay, unconcious, but still breathing. The flames were burning his bare feet, trying to catch the hem of the tunic, but Pippin payed it no heed. With all the strength he posessed, he tried to push Faramir from the pyre. But in this, finally, he invaded the unseen territory of Denethor.

The scream was more beast then man, and his gaze, as he whirled down on the hobbit spoke of murder. Pippin did not see the strike coming, and was hit with the full force of it. He hard fell onto the captain, his head only inches away from the flames. Denethor lifted his iron-clad fists once more to crash them down onto Pippin, but he stopped in the movement, frozen.

Because he gazed into the half-open eyes of his son.

In a moment, the world dissolved and was reforged anew. What was barren, was reopened, what was lost, was refound. He could not believe the ray of hope, the impossibility of a chance of escape. For was it not the promise of utter ruin, that had led him, where he was?

Oh so well he remembered the words of the orb, and oh so hard he had fought them. The eye of Sauron had consumed, what strength he had, and in the end, he had finally understood.Everything would go ill. Everything would fall.

But it had not. His son, his second son, the unwanted, the neglected, the strange. Mourned, when he knew, it was to late, loved to late, perishing in his hatred. But there was bloom in the ashes.

There was life in Faramirs eyes.

He whispered the name of his son, and saw the recognition in his eyes. For a moment, he was standing in bright sunlight, the clouds gone, and his heart remembered, that there had been a time where he thought he could stand a fight.

And then he felt the fire burning.

The pain was nothing to the understanding, that once more, he had been to late, that he was doomed to know, to realize, but only at the utmost end of things, when it did not matter any more. He screamed, in pain, in terror, and the flames climbed up his cloak, adding to the burning inside, as madness finally and ultimately claimed its prize.

And as he run screaming out of the Silent Street, every part of his body being on fire, he did not see Pippin lifting his son from the flames, he did not see Faramir falling to the floor as the hobbit collapsed next to him.

And in a shining torch went Denethor, son of Ecthelion, having lost his own battle as all people of the city were on the brim of losing theirs.

Silence fell.

The pyre crackled, and there was the heavy breathing of Pippin as well as of the shieldmaiden, who was painfully dragging herself up to the uneven pair at the foot of the flames. She was on all fours, not finding the strength to stand, following her instincts, not her concious mind, still being enslaved by the witch-king's whispers. And softly, the captain turned his head.

Eowyn reached the two that lay on the floor, panting the smaller, almost not breathing the other, and came to a halt, her eyes darting around, blind, her senses ensnared and lost in shadows. Her hand wandered over the floor as if it had a mind of its own, as if it were the only part of her still able to take notice of her surroundings.

She touched stone and ashes, small sticks of wood, that had – as her mind supplied - fallen of the pyre. A liquid, warm, a biting stench in her nose. Cloth. A garment.

Then skin.

Her hand shrank back at the touch and she shook her head to clear her thoughts. The grasp of the foreign mind on hers loosened marginally, the whisper receding as she reemerged to the surface.

A body was lying next to her, still, unmoving.

And then, she saw his eyes

And as if in a mirror, she felt the fire consume her whole.


End file.
